


Sobriety

by ikeracity



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Alternative Universe - Elementary (TV), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:16:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6649735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elementary AU. Charles is a brilliant consulting detective, and Erik is his sober companion. And then they become more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sobriety

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授权翻译]Sobriety未醉](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7428133) by [Shame_i_translate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shame_i_translate/pseuds/Shame_i_translate)



> Just a small thing I started writing for tumblr, but it got out of hand. Inspired by betty, who just wanted some angst, pining, and h/c. My weaknesses :D

Erik came home to find half the kitchen on fire. As he stood there in the doorway, gaping, Charles popped up from behind the counter and said brightly, “Hello, Erik! Don’t worry about the mess, it’s just a minor setback.”

“The cabinets are on _fire_.”

Charles waved the fire extinguisher at the flames. “That’s why I have this, see?”

“Give that to me.” Erik snatched it from him. Charles, useless man, hadn’t even gotten around to pulling the pin out of the handle. Erik yanked it out, squeezed the lever, and aimed it at the base of the fire, which was beginning to lick up the counter.

“It’s times like these I’m glad I have you around,” Charles said happily.

“My official title is _sober companion_ , not _manservant_ ,” Erik grumbled.

“You’re wonderful,” Charles sang, and promptly made himself scarce.

Twenty minutes later, the fire was out, and the worst of the damage had been contained. Erik put the batteries back into the smoke detector (he would’ve demanded to know why Charles had taken them out, but given that the kitchen looked like an experiment gone wrong, he had a pretty good idea why), studied the disaster for another exasperated minute, and then stomped upstairs to find Charles.

“Ah, there you are,” Charles said. He was sitting in his study, staring intently at the giant, note-covered whiteboard as if nothing had happened. “Come here. What do you think of this?”

“Of what?” Erik asked. “And are we just not going to talk about how half the kitchen is charred now?”

Charles waved his hand distractedly. “We’ll deal with that later. More importantly, _this_.” He jabbed a finger at a sticky note covered in his illegible handwriting. “Look. Security footage shows Mrs. Gupta leaving the store at 9:30 p.m. ME estimates time of death between midnight and 3 a.m. So what are we to think of the two and a half hours we have unaccounted for?”

“I don’t know,” Erik said with growing irritation. “You _do_ understand that you could’ve burned down the house, right?”

Charles frowned. “The reaction truly wasn’t meant to be that…well, _explosive._ And the fire extinguisher was on hand the whole time.”  

Erik resisted the urge to throw up his hands. He’d endured three months of this already; he wasn’t about to throw in the towel now. “Fine. Next time you set the kitchen or, God forbid, yourself on fire, don’t expect me to rush in and put it out for you.”

Charles smiled sweetly at him. “Oh, Erik, I never expect a rescue. You just always happen to be there right when I need you.”

There was something there, something Erik’s counselor training told him to press on, but before he could, Charles had already turned back to the whiteboard. “There’s a convenience store at the next corner,” he said, whipping a pen out of his pocket. “We’ll check there, see if there’s any surveillance videos we can take a look at. If we can track Mrs. Gupta from her last-known location, we can figure out what she was doing in the interim, and _that_ , my friend, may lead us to her killer.” He tugged a note off the board and waved it at Erik. “Ready to go?”

There was nothing to do but follow.

 

*

 

Charles Xavier was an addict. An alcoholic, to be precise, though he had dabbled in drugs before Erik had met him. Whiskey was his poison of choice, though he liked gin and brandy as well, and on his worst days, he would have even settled for an American beer. But he hadn’t touched a drink in three hundred seventy-two days. He had gone to rehab in London and then moved to New York on one provision: either he accepted the restrictions his mother placed on him, or he would be returning to London immediately to remain under her constant supervision. Charles and his mother did not get along. Needless to say, he had agreed, and had been on the first plane to New York that following morning. Hardly even two days later, he had come face-to-face with one of his mother’s provisions: sober companion Erik Lehnsherr. 

Charles had spent three weeks trying to kick the man out. But Erik was annoyingly persistent, annoyingly dedicated to his job, and annoyingly undeterred by locked doors. So finally Charles had accepted his fate and marked the date of Erik’s departure in his calendar—Erik’s contract was for only one year, to be terminated if Charles remained on his best behavior.

He walked the straight and narrow. He won a consulting job with the NYPD. He solved cases. He put murderers behind bars. He was becoming what his mother would have called _a respectable young man._ And he was, for some strange reason, miserable.

Perhaps _miserable_ was a strong word. He was discontent. He was restless. Not _bored_ , not in the way that used to frighten him and drive him to take a hit, but he was…dissatisfied. The infuriating thing was that he couldn’t figure out why.

Then one night Erik said, “I have a date tonight, but I’ll be checking in every hour, so no funny business,” and disappeared out the door without so much as a by-your-leave. Then Charles realized, with a dark, sinking feeling in his gut, why he’d felt so off-balance these last few months, and that he was well and truly fucked.

He walked the perimeter of the house a dozen times that evening, trying to funnel away the urge to find a drink. The need for a strong whiskey was a maddening itch in the back of his head, hurting to be scratched. Charles clung hard to his phone, counting down the minutes. Eight o’clock: _Everything going well?_ Nine o’clock: _You’d better not be setting fire to anything again._ Ten o’clock: _I’ll be home soon_.

Ten-thirty and the door opened. Erik came in humming— _humming!_ —and shook off his coat in the hallway. When he found Charles in the sitting room adjacent, he paused and said, “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“I—” Charles unstuck his throat and forced his voice to come out normally. “I wasn’t. I was reading my notes.” He lifted up the file in his lap. “See?”

Erik turned his head to read the front of the file. “Of the Shelley case? We closed that weeks ago.”

“I—know.” Charles had, in fact, just grabbed a file at random, not really intending to study anything tonight. But the last thing he wanted was for Erik to think Charles had been waiting up for him. “I was just rereading the notes. It helps to refresh my memory of old cases. That way I can recall details that may help us on current situations.”

“Oh. All right.”

As Erik turned toward the stairs, Charles couldn’t help but ask, “How was your date?”

Erik gave him an amused look. “You really care?”

“Well—don’t friends normally show interest in each other’s romantic exploits?”

“So we’re friends now.”

Charles paused. “I suppose.” The longer Erik’s gaze rested on him, the more restless he felt. Slapping the file onto the table beside him, he stood up and went to carry his cold tea into the kitchen. “Never mind. Goodnight, Erik.”

Erik, as usual, failed to get the hint. Following Charles into the kitchen, he leaned against the counter (newly refurbished following the fire incident) and watched as Charles set his mug in the sink and began to rinse out the teapot. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Charles said shortly.

“That’s a lie.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you’re being defensive. And you never clean unless you’re upset.”

Charles stopped scrubbing at the teapot. “I’m not upset. Why would I be upset?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Charles took a deep breath and counted backwards from ten. He really, really wanted to slam back a shot of tequila or something that would make his throat burn. Instead, he swallowed and said as casually as he could manage, “Like I told you, nothing’s wrong.”

“You know,” Erik said, coming to lean up against the sink, “for a man who can read people like most people read books, you’re a really shitty liar.”

Charles shut off the sink with a jerk. “I’m fine,” he said coldly. “I’m going to bed.”

Without waiting for a reply, he stomped upstairs.

 

*

 

There was something very shocking about being shot. Charles knew, intellectually, what being shot should feel like. He had even felt it himself, albeit vicariously through another officer’s mind. But this time was real, _viscerally_ real, and for a moment, he couldn’t think anything except, _Bloody fuck, that hurts._

Then Moira was there. She pressed down hard on his belly, and he let out a small groan, scrabbling feebly at her hand. “Stop moving,” she ordered sharply. “I need to put pressure on the wound.” When he nodded and let his eyes drift shut, she shook his shoulder. “Stay awake, Charles. Look at me. Can you tell me your name?”

 _Well of course_ , Charles tried to say, but it came out as an odd gurgle. He swallowed hard and whispered, “Yes. Charles Xavier.”

“Good. We’ve called an ambulance. Stay with me, all right?” Her eyes found his and held them until he said weakly, “Okay.”

She kept speaking, but suddenly all Charles could think of was Erik, who had gone with Alex to Dalton Greer’s workplace with follow-up questions. But if Greer’s sister was in on it—and she had to be, she’d just shot at the police—then Greer must be as well. And if _she_ was armed…

“Erik,” he whispered. It hurt too much to say more.

Thankfully Moira knew exactly what he was trying to say. “I know. We’ve already radioed it in. The captain’s probably got a hold of Summers and Lehnsherr right now. They’ll be ready for Greer.”

That was good. Relief filled him. A moment later, the world around him grew blurry and indistinct, and Moira’s voice faded into the distance. It hurt to breathe, but it was hurting less by the second. He closed his eyes.

 

*

 

Erik paced. Back and forth, back and forth down the long hall. He couldn’t sit in Charles’s room. The sight of Charles lying pale and still in the bed distressed him too much. The third time the monitoring equipment around the bed started to rattle ominously, the nurses had ushered him out with resolute orders not to come back in until he could control himself. He hadn’t been able to come back in since.

Moira found him after a while. She had two coffees in hand and gave one to him. After a minute, she said, “He’ll be okay.”

“I know.” Erik had been a surgeon. He knew how these things went. He knew that having come out of surgery, Charles’s prognosis was good. He’d be all right. But still, Erik’s stomach wouldn’t settle.

“It’s weird,” Moira said quietly. “He’s so… _Charles_. The way he is, you think he’s invincible. Like he can’t be touched.”

He knew what she meant. Charles was so brilliant and confident and powerful that it was hard to imagine he could be brought low. How could anyone get a step ahead of Charles, who was always looking five moves ahead? How could anyone fool him when he was so frustratingly adept at squirreling out thoughts and moods and secrets?

“He’s just like anyone else,” Erik said, partly to himself. “He can be hurt just like anyone else.”

“I knew that,” Moira said, her brows furrowed. “Now I _know_ it.”

They stood next to each other for a couple of minutes, silently buried in their respective coffees. Then Moira said, “They got Greer.”

Erik gritted his teeth. “Good.” After word had come that Charles had been shot, Erik would have strangled Greer with his bare hands if he could have. But Alex had taken one look at him and sent him straight to the hospital while he and his backup went after Greer. Part of Erik had been furious at being denied the chance of eviscerating the man whose sister was responsible for putting a bullet in Charles. But if he were being honest, most of him had been so terrified and worried that he would’ve been useless in the investigation anyway.

“They’re bringing him back to the station,” Moira continued. “Believe me, he’ll get a frosty reception.”

Erik believed it—Charles was enduringly popular with everyone in the station, from the front desk sergeant to Captain Frost. “And the sister?” Erik’s fists clenched. “Greer’s sister?”

“She’s still out. Charles did a number on her.” Moira’s voice softened. “You know he probably saved lives by knocking her out when he did. She took us by surprise. She could’ve done some real damage if she’d kept shooting.”  

“Why didn’t he knock her out _before_ he got shot?” Erik demanded. He was—there was no other word for it, he was _irritated_ with Charles. Irritated as hell. “He was stupid. Complacent. I’m always telling him he’s fucking naïve, believing everyone has good intentions—” He took a ragged breath. “So _stupid_.”

Moira gave him a long, knowing look. “Not all of us were soldiers, Erik. Not all of us are on alert twenty-four seven. Don’t blame him for the believing the best in people.”

“I’ll blame him for anything I want,” Erik muttered. He hated how petty that sounded, but he reserved the right to call Charles out when he was being an idiot. Hell, that was basically what Sharon Xavier was paying him for.

Moira might have said more, but at that moment, a nurse came up to them. “Lieutenant MacTaggert?”

Moira held up her hand. “That’s me.”

The nurse’s eyes flicked over to Erik. “I came to tell you that Dr. Xavier’s awake.”

 

*

 

The first few days of Charles’s homecoming were a whirlwind of activity. The detectives from the precinct came by with gifts and food and company, and some old friends Charles hadn’t seen in ages dropped by with well-wishes. Even some strangers who had heard of the incident in the papers mailed in get-well cards and flowers. Charles was starting a collection of cute stuffed “Get Better Soon” bears on the mantel.

It was all very heartwarming, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the fact that Erik was acting very distant. In the hospital, he had been tight-lipped and gruff, and since they’d gotten home, the silence had only grown worse. Erik didn’t disappear—rather, he hovered over Charles like a mother hawk over her young, making sure Charles didn’t overexert himself or forget to take his meds. But their usual easy way of conversation was nowhere to be found. Whenever Charles asked a question, Erik answered in a handful of words and moved off. Whenever Charles tried to ask for a game of chess, Erik said he wasn’t in the mood. Something had changed between them since the shooting, and Charles didn’t like that he couldn’t deduce what it was. The mystery of it was an annoying itch he couldn’t reach.

One evening, perhaps a week after he had come home from the hospital, the doorbell rang. Erik had run upstairs to take a shower (one of the brief times he ever left Charles’s side), so Charles got up from the couch and went to answer the door.

“Hey,” said the UPS man outside. “Got a package for Charles Xavier.”

“That’s me.”

The man held out a tablet and pointed at the line. “Just sign here.”  

Charles did so and received a rectangular box, wooden, tied at the top with a red bow. “Have a good evening,” the UPS man said, and Charles nodded and waved before stepping back inside.

It was from his mother, no doubt about that. The wood felt polished and expensive under his hand, and this was just the sort of quiet, elegant gift she’d send. He was surprised she’d sent anything at all, really.

He sat back down on the couch and tugged the small square envelope out from underneath the bow. The card inside was heavy, creamy cardstock. _To Dr. Xavier,_ it read, which was an immediate sign that his mother hadn’t written this. She always called him _Charles_. Of course she hadn’t personally put any of this together; she’d probably heard about the shooting, figured she should send well-wishes, and assigned one of her minions to do it for her. With a sigh, Charles scanned over the rest of the card—the usual, clichéd _we hope for your full recovery_ —and then reached for the box.

The bow came off easily, and the front panel slid open at the bottom. Charles tugged it open and nearly dropped the whole thing when he saw what was inside.

For a long moment, all he could do was stare at it, an endless litany of _fuck, fuck, fuck_ cycling around and around in his head. His mouth went dry in an instant, and his hands tightened white-knuckled around the box. His heart felt very fast in his chest, like a horse startled into a gallop. It was hard to breathe.

Distantly he heard footsteps rushing down the stairs. A moment later, Erik was there, his hair still wet, his clothes haphazardly thrown on. “Hey, what’s wrong? I felt you from up th—” His eyes caught sight of the box. “What is that?”

Slowly, Charles lifted the bottle out of its cushioning. “Glenfarclas 1955. It’s—My mother sent it.”

“What,” Erik said flatly.

“She didn’t choose it,” Charles said, his eyes fixed on the dark whiskey swirling inside the bottle. He could imagine how silky it would feel running down his throat. How _warm_. “She wouldn’t be so mean, especially after she’d worked so hard to patch up my reputation. But she must have thought to send something and told one of her employees to do it—and not everyone knows about my—about the drinking. It must have been a mistake. It couldn’t have been anything else.” How could it be? How could anyone be this deliberately cruel?  

Erik strode across the room and tried to take the box. For a moment, Charles couldn’t make his hands let go. Then Erik said, very quietly, “Charles, give it to me,” and he surrendered it with a shuddering breath.

Erik left with the bottle, and Charles sat on the couch, his head buzzing painfully. He wanted to lean over, elbows on knees, and breathe for a few minutes with his head between his knees, but the wound in his stomach was still healing and hurt too much for him to bend over. He had to make do with closing his eyes and trying to think of old cases, of the crappy police procedurals that Erik enjoyed, of anything except the way whiskey tasted, rich and warm and smooth.

Erik returned, eventually. He had a glass of water with him, which he set down on the coffee table in front of Charles. When he sat, their knees pressed together, a point of physical contact that Charles focused on.

“Are you okay?” Erik asked.

Charles almost laughed, but he didn’t want to betray just how shaken he was. “Yeah. Just fine.”  

“Talk to me, Charles.”

“What is there to talk about? What did you do with the Glenfarclas? Tell me you didn’t pour it down the sink.” The thought made his heart hurt.

“I didn’t. It’s gone though.”

“Good,” Charles said with some difficulty.

“Good.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Erik said, “Were you tempted to hide it so I wouldn’t find it?”

“What kind of question is that?” Charles ran his hands through his hair in agitation. “Christ, of _course_ I was tempted. If you hadn’t run down so quickly, I might have…I don’t know what would’ve happened.” He gave into the urge now and leaned over, ignoring the pain in his middle. “Christ. I’m supposed to be better than this now. One look and that’s all it takes to send me into a state? I thought I was getting better.”

“You _are_. You’ve been sober for over a year, Charles, going on two years. The struggle against addiction never ends. It doesn’t even necessarily get easier. You just have to keep fighting.”  

Charles let out a shaky laugh. “That’s reassuring.”

He flinched when Erik’s hand came to rest on his back, between his shoulders. “It’s a hard road,” Erik said softly, “but it’s easier with friends. You’re not alone, Charles.”

He closed his eyes and breathed shallowly for a while. Then he gave into the temptation and turned and pressed his face against Erik’s shoulder, breathing him in. Erik stiffened underneath him but didn’t draw away. After a moment, he wrapped his arms around Charles’s shoulders and pulled him closer.

They sat like that for a long time. Erik was warm and solid and comforting, and Charles couldn’t get close enough. He clutched a hand in the front of Erik’s shirt and wished suddenly, fiercely, that Erik’s contract wouldn’t end in June. Charles didn’t think he was strong enough to carry on without him.  

“Of course you are,” Erik said.

Charles opened his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“You _are_ strong enough,” Erik said. “More than strong enough. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. You’re brilliant and passionate and kind. You can be anything you want. And…” He hesitated.

“And?” Charles pressed.

“And if you asked me to stay,” Erik said, hushed like it was an admission of guilt, “I would.”

That was a revelation. Charles needed a moment to take it in. This whole time, he’d been operating under the assumption that their time was limited, but if Erik was willing to stay on longer, if he wasn’t set on leaving in the summer…

“I could renew your contract,” Charles said, his still-muddled mind struggling to work through the logistics. “You wouldn’t have to go through my mother. I mean, it’ll be her money anyway, but I can’t imagine she’d object to my keeping you on as my sober companion. In fact, I think she’d be relieved.”

Erik was silent for a long moment, frowning. Then he said slowly, “I didn’t mean I’d stay on as your sober companion.”

“What?”

“I meant I’d stay.” Erik took Charles’s hand, squeezed it in his own. “With you.”

The implication behind his words was dizzying. “As—as friends?” Charles said feebly, trying to make sense of this.

“Well—yes. But I was hoping…” Erik turned his head and nuzzled Charles’s cheek, a gesture so intimate it made Charles’s breath catch in his throat. “…you’d want something more.”

“Oh god,” Charles breathed out, turning to grab onto Erik more fully. “Oh god, yes. Are you sure? You and that girl—Magda—”

“We broke up.”

“Oh. But you liked her.”

“Yeah. But I…”

Warmth and affection burst like sudden wildfire across their physical connection. Charles let out a low, shocked noise, and Erik pulled back immediately, eyes wide. “What?”

“Nothing. Just—” Charles laughed softly, incredulously. Had he imagined it? No, the fire was still there, burning in Erik's mind. “You liked her," he said, breathless with the realization. "But you…love me.”

Erik’s eyes grew even wider, but he didn’t refute it. His jaw worked for a moment, and then he said, “When you were shot, I’d never been so scared in my life. I thought you were going to die.”

“It wasn’t that bad, as far as gunshot wounds to the stomach go.” Charles had seen worse himself; as a soldier, Erik had likely seen even worse.  

Erik huffed in fond irritation. “I knew that. Don’t you think I know it could’ve been worse? But that didn’t mean anything when I was standing there in the waiting room. You know what I wanted to do while I was waiting? I wanted to talk to someone about what had happened. But not just anyone—I wanted to talk to _you_. I always want to talk to you when things happen. But this time you were in the OR and I was standing outside waiting to hear if you were dead or not and I—” He took a shallow breath, and his hand tightened painfully around Charles’s. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

Charles laughed and pressed his face into Erik’s shoulder. “I promise.”

They remained curled together on the couch for a long while after that, just soaking up each other’s presence. Eventually, reluctantly, Erik stirred and said, “You should take your meds and go to bed. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

“All right.”

Together they stood up stiffly, joints aching from sitting for so long. It was a slow climb to the second floor bedrooms, and at the juncture where they normally separated, Charles caught Erik’s hand and said, “Stay with me tonight?”

He searched Erik’s expression for any hint of hesitation, but Erik’s eyes only gleamed with pleasure. “Yes.”

Charles gave him back a bit of that feeling, that warmth and joy, and watched as Erik’s eyes widened. “Was that you?”

“Yes.” Charles smiled. “Is that all right?”

Erik laced their fingers together, his palm broad and comforting against Charles’s. “Of course. Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

So they went, together. 

 


End file.
